


Dam

by ImagineMystrade



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Imagine your OTP, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, pre-Empty Hearse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-10
Updated: 2013-11-10
Packaged: 2018-01-01 02:33:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1039322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImagineMystrade/pseuds/ImagineMystrade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg becomes uneasy when Mycroft begins acting very out of character.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dam

**Author's Note:**

> Based on this prompt: Imagine person A of your OTP being all secretive and person B ends up going to their home to see what’s going on and it turns out that person A’s parents are visiting them so person B ends up meeting them. 
> 
> I kept closer to the prompt than I have in my past stories 
> 
> Note about the title: I mean it in two ways, trying to evoke the sensation of someone (ie Mycroft) keeping his feelings bottled up, and also as in "Dam and Sire," used in animal breeding to indicate the mother and father off a (usually) pedigreed offspring.

Greg Lestrade drank his beer and silently cheered on his friend as he came close to sealing the deal with a pretty brunette.

He'd been the first to notice the woman eyeing John Watson from across the pub and it had taken no small amount of convincing, along with some liquid courage, to get John off his arse and in the woman's more direct line of sight.  
  
Now they were chatting, laughing and flirting, and unless Greg missed his guess, John was going to be getting the woman's number in the next few seconds.  
  
Then it all changed. The woman's face, so open and friendly before, slid closed like a window shutting itself against the cold. Her eyes were hard and she gave John a disdainful look before turning back to her drink.  
  
Greg winced, a bit embarrassed for his friend. After a disbelieving expression flitted across John's face, he just shrugged, said something to the woman's back that she didn't acknowledge and turned to go back the stool he'd vacated.  
  
The ex-Army doctor was smiling slightly when he got back to the bar. Greg eyed him worriedly and pushed a fresh pint toward him.  
  
“What happened there? I thought things were going well.”  
  
“They were,” said John. “Then she asked me what I did for a living. It all went into the skip after that.”  
  
“Are you serious? I thought women liked doctors,” said Greg. “You know, healers, scientists ... upwardly mobile and that. Plus, you've got the war hero thing going for you, yeah? Men in uniform and all.”  
  
John quaffed his brew. “Well, not so much the last one, considering I haven't had one _on_ in nearly five years. And even then, I barely got any looks. I think that 'blokes in uniform' lark is just a myth."

"Dunno about that," Greg said. "When I was a PC, women threw themselves at me. Said the helmet turned them on.”  
  
John grinned. “Not really a surprise. My sister said those always reminded her of the top of a dildo.”  
  
Laughing, Greg nearly choked on his beer and spent a few seconds coughing liquid out of his windpipe. John chuckled and took another pull on his pint.  
  
“Plus, I think she had some dealings with doctors that weren't all that great," said John. "She had that I-shagged-a-GP-and-he-lost-my-number-next-day look to her.”  
  
“Hell with her then,” said Greg, finishing his drink and signaling for another. “Don't worry, mate. You'll get back on the horse again. It's only been, what, two months since you ended things with, er ... Carren?”  
  
"Carlie." John looked wistful. "I miss her a bit. It wasn't going to go anywhere, though. Sweet girl, but we never had much to talk about, and shagging can't make up for that sometimes, you know?”

"You're talking to a man whose wife stopped shagging him six months before he found about about the affair she was having," said Greg in a grim voice. "The _second_ one. But I'll take your word for it."

They were quiet for a while, nursing their drinks. Greg cleared his throat.  
  
“So ... did you and, er, _Carlie_ end things on a good note?" asked Greg. "I thought _you_ called things off."

"It was more of a mutual thing, really," said John. He glanced over and grimaced at Lestrade's cocked eyebrow. "I'm serious. I know some blokes tell themselves that to ease the sting, but I've been thrown over plenty of times. This one really _was_ mutual, more or less."

Greg leaned forward a little. “What happened?”

“Nothing earth-shattering.” John paused to take a few healthy swallows from his mug. “We were spending a lot of time together, and sort of getting to that place where we had to decide whether this was going to become something serious. It really was pretty clear by then that we didn't have what it took to make a go of it, so we decided to call it off before things got messy.”

Greg thought about that for a minute. “You said that you didn't have much in common but the shagging?”

The doctor nodded. “Which was brilliant, don't get me wrong, but we didn't really have much to say to each other out of bed. One night toward the end, we'd gotten a take-away, watched part of a Doctor Who marathon, and then went to bed. Barely three words passed between us the whole night.” John shook his head. “It wasn't what either of us wanted and we were able to admit that to ourselves and move on.”

“How long did you two date again?”

“About six weeks or so,” answered John. “It was good that it ended when it did and we didn't drag it out. _That_ would have been bloody torture.”

 Lestrade went quiet again. He peered into his mug for a moment, his bottom lip between his teeth.

“Has that happened to you then? I mean, have you experienced that before?”

 Now it was time for John's eyebrow to quirk upward. “Experienced _what_ before?”

“Someone dragging things out. Like with you and this Carlie bird. You worked it out you weren't very keen. But sometimes, a person reckons that out but they don't know quite how to go about ending it.”

Greg looked over at his friend, his forehead creased. “I've heard about things like that happening, but I've never actually had it happen to _me_.”

John's expression was slightly skeptical. “I don't mean to bring up bad memories, Greg, but what your ex-wife did was sort of textbook definition of stringing-along.”

Greg shook his head. “Yes and no. Viv wasn't going to leave me – at least not for a while. The separation was my idea, just like the divorce was. She wanted to have her cake and eat it, too, that was the problem. But she wasn't going to leave me. She's Catholic down to her shoes, one of the few things my mum had liked about her. Divorce was a sin in Viv's eyes, but the whole not committing adultery thing didn't factor in, I guess.” He chuckled darkly. “Had to agree to pay out the arse on the maintenance to get her to agree to sign the papers. That and the fact that her PE bloke made noises about wanting to marry her.”

“Oh.” John frowned slightly. “I didn't know. Well … to answer your question, not really. I mean, not in the way I think you mean it. I've done it accidentally, I suppose, once or twice. Then there was Sarah – you remember her, don't you? The doctor I dated for awhile back when Sher … back when I first moved to Baker Street?”

Greg hesitated a moment before nodding, noticing John's reddening face. Sherlock Holmes was still a sore subject with John Watson, even now, nearly two years after the consulting detective had leapt from the roof of St. Bart's. John had moved on, was in a new flat, had set up with a partner in a nice little surgery out in Twickenham, and _still_ it was difficult for him to even say the man's name.

“Well, I was pretty gone for her,” said John, licking foam off his upper lip. “I thought she might be _the one_ , you know? And she liked me a good bit, too. But the timing was shit. I think in the back of our minds, we both knew that, but we were so attracted to each other that we pushed it aside. It wasn't anything we did on purpose, I think we'd just hoped things would sort themselves out. When they didn't, it was tough, but we were able let it go and keep things friendly the whole time I worked at the surgery.”

“Very adult,” said Lestrade with a soft smile. “You really are an officer  _and_ a gentleman, John.”

John snorted. “The only reason I'm not flipping you off right now is that you paid for the last round.” He peered at his friend. “What brought this to mind? Stringing people along, I mean.”

Greg hesitated. He knew that this conversation could head into choppy waters very quickly. If things were heading where he _thought_ they were, these nights down the pub with John would be the only social activity he'd be experiencing for the foreseeable future.

“It's … y'know ...” Lestrade stared into his mug. “Just something I've been thinking about. In general. About … er … relationships and all.”

There was a beat of silence before John said in a low voice: “Is this something having to do with Mycroft? With _you_ and Mycroft?”

Greg's eyes went wide. He was grateful he hadn't taken a sip of his beer, because there was a good chance the barkeep would have been wearing it, at that moment.

“Uh ...” Greg was floored, both by the question, and by the knowledge that John had, on his own, brought up the topic of his relationship with Mycroft Holmes.

Greg still couldn't quite pinpoint when the slight skepticism/sharp annoyance/vague sense of awe that he'd felt toward Mycroft had morphed into attraction. Certainly he'd noticed that Mycroft had cut a fine figure in his bespoke finery, and Greg couldn't help but admire the man's dedication to getting – and keeping – Sherlock on the straight and narrow path after the younger Holmes had emerged from rehab.

For that reason, Greg had not been too fussed to “keep an eye” on Sherlock as Mycroft had implored him to do in those early days that a newly clean Sherlock did consulting for New Scotland Yard. He'd told the elder Holmes that it didn't mean that he would be his lapdog, but he would do what he could to ensure Sherlock kept his nose clean and remained safe.

After Sherlock's death, however, Greg had found himself drawing closer to Mycroft. In many ways, it was a strange thing: Six months or so after Sherlock's suicide came irrefutable proof that James Moriarty really _had_ existed, had committed the crimes that Sherlock had been accused of staging or committing himself, including the abduction of the Bruhl children. Until that time, Greg had been persona non grata at the Yard, on suspension after the debacle of Sherlock's escape.

With the new evidence, Lestrade had been fully reinstated and there had been talk that Donovan, Anderson and some others were going to be getting their walking papers. It hadn't pleased Greg: He did not and never would appreciate Donovan's going over his head, especially when she had never convinced him of Sherlock's guilt in the matter of the Bruhl kidnapping, but he understood that she had just been doing her job. She and pretty much everyone involved had danced to the tune James Moriarty had played.

But Donovan and the others had _not_ been sacked. Greg found out later that Mycroft had called in a few favors, though the Chief Superintendent hadn't been so lucky. Greg had gotten a bit of a thrill watching the stilted prick bumble through a “resignation” press conference where he extolled the virtues of the Metropolitan Police Service but gave the old “needing to spend time with my family” line.

When Greg had found out what Mycroft Holmes had done for Donovan and the rest, he'd hunted him up. Well, not right away. He thought it might be best to give the man a wide berth for bit. He _had_ lost his brother, as contentious as that relationship had been.

But after a few weeks back to full duty, Greg had texted Mycroft an invite for a pint. Which turned into dinner. Which turned into an invite to the cinema. Which again turned into dinner, with a walk around Bushey Park this time. Which turned into an invite to a play, which again turned into dinner, a walk and snog in the rain.

And so on.

It was new … ish. Three months, give or take a week. Greg was cautious. It had been several decades since he'd had a male lover, and he had some vague thought that the “rules,” such as they were, had changed along the way. Mycroft was equally as cautious. They were feeling each other out, so to speak, and not rushing it. Dinners out, cinema, a game of snooker here and there.

It was going at a snails' pace, which Greg enjoyed, even if he was getting to be somewhat eager to get to the more … _tangible_ aspects of the relationship. But he was determined not to rush that, either. Just because he was dealing with a bloke didn't give him the right to be a slavering twat. He and Mycroft would make love when the time seemed right, and Greg had no doubt that it would be amazing.

The one thing uncomfortable thing about it all, however, was John. There was some enmity between John and Mycroft that Greg was not able to understand. Neither man talked about the other unless it couldn't be helped, though Mycroft seemed more complimentary of John when he did talk about him than the reverse.

Greg couldn't really understand it. The most he could piece together was that John somehow blamed _Mycroft_ for Sherlock's death. Lestrade truly couldn't understand that: Mycroft had gone to every extreme to keep Sherlock alive during the dark days of the younger Holmes's addiction. He couldn't see how John could seriously think that anything Mycroft could have done would have led Sherlock to make the decision to jump.

They hadn't really talked about the new developments with Mycroft. How John had found out, Greg could only guess. He knew that John still saw Mrs. Hudson regularly, and Mycroft still paid the rent for 221B, insisting that it be kept exactly as Sherlock had left it, though John had moved out shortly after Sherlock's funeral. Or possibly John had heard the news from Molly Hooper. They'd run into her during a stroll around Bushey Park. There might have been kissing involved. Molly had taken it in stride, giving Mycroft a curious smile. Greg knew that John had again begun visiting St. Bart's, after having stayed away for a year or so after Sherlock's suicide. He had no idea how friendly John and Molly were, but it was very possible it had come up in conversation.

At any rate, it was all out in the open one evening John had texted Greg wanting to see if he wished to catch a football match and an ale and Greg had to decline. John's message had been succinct:

**\- Oh. Plans with Mycroft then?**

After he'd picked his jaw off the ground, Greg's reply had been just as to-the-point:

**\- Yeah. Chinese takeaway and the Graham Norton Show.**

**\- Right. Maybe next week then.**

Not a word had been said in that vein since … until now.

Greg noticed John looking at him with a half-concerned, half-pained expression. To John's credit, the concern was winning out, but Greg didn't really want to press his luck.

“It's nothing. Just … you know. One of those things.” He tried for a nonchalant shrug. “Anyway, you have any prospects on the horizon?” He noticed the woman John had tried to chat up leaving with her friends and the woman giving John a last glance before sauntering out the door. John didn't seem to notice.

“Look, if there's something wrong, you _can_ tell me …” The doctor's brows knit. “He's not doing anything to hurt you, is he? Mycroft, I mean.”

Greg swiped his bottom lip with his tongue. “I- I don't know how to answer that, really. I guess … are you _sure_ you want to hear about this? I know Mycroft isn't exactly … your favorite person.”

John sighed. “No, he isn't, but you're my mate. And what are mates for if not to hear about their relationship issues and try to help out if they can? So go on with it. What's the problem?”

Greg hesitated a moment. “I … I guess I feel like things have changed. Not for the better.” He paused again. “I have a feeling he's gone off me, and doesn't really know how to end it. Maybe he's waiting on me to end things so he gets off the hook. That happens still, doesn't it?”

“Er, yeah.” John nodded slowly. “A bit sorry to say I've pulled that trick a couple times myself. In my, um, younger years. Never seemed to work the way I hoped it would.”

“They never threw you over first?”

“No, they did, but usually ended up catching on and slapping me. I reckon I deserved that, most of the time.” John smiled briefly. “Well … I mean, not to defend Mycroft or anything, but are you _sure_ that's what's going on? I don't know what he's like in a relationship, and Sherlock was never in one that I knew of … though even if he had been, I don't think they'd be much alike. Anyway, what makes you think he's not keen anymore?”

“Well, he's been putting me off all this week,” said Greg, running a slow finger around the rim of his mug. “Usually we're texting back and forth. We'd text 15 or so times a day. A bit less if either of us was busy. But _this_ week, I've barely heard from him. I sent a few texts. Usually he answers me in seconds, or if he can't, he'll send an **iam**.”

“ _Iam_?” John frowned. “What's that?”

“ **I-A-M.** Means ' **in a meeting** ,'” answered Greg. “He has it saved to his mobile keyboard so he can just press a button and I get the word. Then he'll text when he's free. But he's not done that … he just hasn't responded, or if he does, it's hours later.”

John was quiet a moment. “Could just be he's backsliding into old habits. Sherlock told me once that Mycroft wouldn't text when he could talk. In a new relationship, you always sort of go balls out … uh … you know what I mean.” John was flushed. “Maybe this is a really busy week for him and he's just reverting to that part of him that doesn't fancy texting. Have you tried ringing him?”

“Sure. And it's been like he can't wait to get me off the phone.” Greg bit his lip hard. “It's never been like that, even in the beginning. Sometimes we'd talk an hour or more. If he was busy or if I'd gotten word to go to a crime scene, we'd cut it short, but it was fine. But this week … it's like talking to me was some sort of physical torture that he couldn't wait to be done with.”

John lifted a brow. “Are you sure you aren't exaggerating a little? I can't really see Mycroft being that rude.”

“It wasn't _rude_ just … pointed.” Greg shrugged slightly. “If it were anyone else, I'd just figure they weren't up to talking and that's that. But it's just that it's such a change from how things have been going.”

“Maybe it's work. He does … well … god knows what,” said John. “Maybe it's getting to him. Stress can make even the calmest person into a raging dick.”

Greg half-smiled. “C'mon, John. This is _Mycroft Holmes_ we're talking about. The same bloke whose response after he had to be evacuated out of Damascus when the Embassy came under attack was to ask for a change of shoes. Stress to him is like a steam bath to anyone else.”

“Maybe, but I really can't see him playing for time on something like this.” John looked thoughtful. “How long did you say this has been going on?”

“Pretty much all week,” said Greg morosely. “And I haven't gotten to the worst part. Usually on Fridays we'll go out … or stay in. Depending on the mood, really, and how difficult work was for either of us that day. But we alternate on who gets to set the agenda for the night. This week's my week. I thought I might surprise him with some tickets to that Mesopotamian art exhibit at the British Museum.”

“Mesopotamian art?” John rolled his eyes. “You really _are_ gone for him.”

“Steady on there! I can appreciate good art,” grumbled Greg. “I'm not some unsophisticated clot who sits about with a brew in his hand watching whatever match's on telly.” He was breathing a bit heavily.

John glanced over at him. “Greg, I was joking. Relax a bit. … This really has got you wound up. Your face is bright red.”

Greg took a breath and held it for a minute before letting it out slowly through his teeth. John watched him for a moment before speaking again.

“All right, so you planned on a night out at the museum. What happened?”

Greg swallowed hard, wanting another drink, but also not wanting to walk into the Yard the next morning with a hangover.

“I rang him. I wanted it to be a surprise, but I didn't want him to get tickets himself or go on his own,” said Greg, still feeling a bit flushed. “It was the same as the entire week. As if he really didn't fancy speaking to me. I finally got around to mentioning that I had something special in mind for Friday and he …” Lestrade took a breath. “He said he wasn't sure he could make it. He'd let me know, but he didn't want me to go to so much trouble.”

John considered that a moment. “Maybe he'd been told he may have to jet off to … wherever at the end of the week and just didn't want you to put yourself out if he couldn't make it.”

“I asked him about that, if he had some sort of work commitment that might keep him from being able to make our usual 'dates.'” Greg glared at the mug. “And he said no, but … he wasn't sure he'd be up to it. It had been a long week for him, he said. On a Wednesday!”

“Come on, Greg, be fair,” said John in a gentle voice. “Seems to me that Mycroft's 'long weeks' include a lot more than us lesser mortals can fathom.” For a change, John didn't sound as if her were being sarcastic.

Lestrade was quiet for a long while. The barkeep drifted near, his eyebrows raised in a silent question. Lestrade hesitated for a moment before shaking his head. No. Better to be responsible, even if he was feeling torn up inside. The barkeep gave him a sour look but drifted away again. When Greg spoke again, his voice sounded as if it had been dragged from the bottom of a well.

“A couple of weeks ago, Mycroft had to deal with some emirs from some place I could barely pronounce,” said Greg, focusing on some hazy point in the distance. “It was a rough go. Something about a rebellion in their part of the world. I caught some of it – the unclassified bit – in the newspapers. By the time Mycroft got them sorted, he looked like a dish towel _after_ you wring it out. Pale, shadows under his eyes, hair a bit messy. Even his waistcoat looked tired. I'd never seen him so knackered.”

He turned his head to look at John. His friend stared back at him for a moment before lifting a hand as if to say “And?”

“My point is, as tired as he was, he _still_ kept our date,” said Greg. “Nearly nodded off into his egg fried rice and was snoring on my shoulder by the time _Kitchen Nightmares_ started.”

“You watch _Kitchen Nightmares_?”

Greg shrugged loosely. “Mycroft says he likes to have some 'advance warning' with some of the places he eats. Anyway, he was _there_. No excuses about being tired and not wanting to come round. And _now_ , three days before anything's happened, he tells me he might be too done-in to come to mine?”

John pursed his lips slightly. “All right. Have you actually _talked_ to him about this or asked him what was going on?”

“I … er … no. Not exactly,” Greg mumbled.

“You're going to have to do it,” said John. “I can't say what's going on with Mycroft. I don't think _most_ people can say what's going on with Mycroft, and he can do double-talk and innuendo with the best of them. But I will give him one thing – when you make it clear that you're not going to settle for anything less than a straight answer, he'll give you one … and God help you if you're not prepared for what he has to say.”

Greg shuddered a little. The way John said that sounded a bit … ominous. “And how do you reckon I do that when he barely wants to talk when I ring?”

“ _Don't_ ring,” said John. “Go see him. Face to face.”

Greg looked incredulous. “What, you mean like confront him? Guns drawn and all that, like one of those American western movies on telly?”

“ _How_ many of those have you had again?” John eyed Greg's mug briefly. “No, I mean go to him and ask him what's going on, Greg. Not a _confrontation_ , a _conversation_. Look, if what he's doing isn't working for you, he needs to know that. Maybe there's a good excuse for it all. If there is, you need to hear that. Or maybe he has had second thoughts. If he has, he owes it to you to tell you that. Either way, you're going to have to press the issue, especially if you think he's stringing you along.”

Lestrade sighed. He knew John was right. He needed to know where things stood. There might be a million-and-one logical explanations for Mycroft's behavior that didn't involve his feelings for Greg – or it could very well be that for whatever reason and without any real warning, Mycroft had gone off him. Whatever it was, Greg knew he had to find out for sure and get a definitive answer … even if the answer was one that might tear his heart into tiny pieces.

He nodded and changed the subject, which John accepted after a short pause and narrowed eyes as if he were trying to discern if Greg _really_ was all right. But after a moment, they went on talking. John circled back to Greg's first question about any developments in his love life, mentioning that he just might ring a woman he'd met outside the surgery at which he was now practicing – a cute little blonde called Mary. John said he doubted anything would come of it, but it was worth a shot. Greg couldn't help but feel that statement applied to _his_ situation, as well.  
 

* * *

 

Greg had to remind himself to breathe. It wouldn't work out too well if, along with everything else, he passed out right on Mycroft's doorstep.

He ran a nervous hand over his hair as he approached the entrance to Mycroft's flat, and for perhaps the hundredth time, wondered if he was doing the right thing at all.

When he'd decided to take John's advice to have it out, in person, with Mycroft, the plan had never been to go to Mycroft's home. To Greg, _that_ seemed a bit over-the-line. Maybe even a tad stalkerish, in a way. Not that he'd never been to Mycroft's flat, but he'd always been invited there. He didn't reckon that they'd reached the point in their relationship where they could just nip round to each other's flats without ringing first. Well, Greg didn't think _he'd_ earned that privilege. He would have been fine with Mycroft popping up to his unexpectedly.

But things hadn't been that simple. It was Friday, just getting on toward evening. All that day, Greg had stared at his mobile, willing it to come to life. It was evident to him that he and Mycroft really and truly were not going to be spending the evening together as they had done for so many weeks prior.

It was hard for Greg to understand – especially when he texted Mycroft shortly before lunch to ask him if maybe they could get together Saturday or Sunday, if Mycroft found himself too … _tired_ to keep up their Friday arrangement. To Greg's surprise, and in a reverse from his behavior the entire week, Mycroft had texted him back almost immediately and said he'd contact him later on that day to see if that could be arranged. Not wanting to get his hopes up, but still anxious, Greg had waited for “later” to come.

And waited. And _waited_.

But Lestrade's mobile stayed stubbornly quiet, and a half-joking “Still alive there?” text he'd sent shortly before his shift ended went unanswered.

That's when Lestrade's resolve broke. It was only because he felt the need to see Mycroft face to face that he did not send a text telling him that it was all off. He'd been tempted, but he knew enough from random bits of gossip he'd picked up at the Yard that a break-up text could backfire rather horribly, especially when the recipient in question was someone like Mycroft Holmes.

He gulped slightly as he eyed down the entrance to Mycroft's flat. Greg was always mildly surprised whenever he saw Mycroft's building. When he'd first been getting to know Mycroft, he'd imagined the man lived in impeccable style, in one of the casually elegant bungalows that ringed Belgravia, for instance.

The neighborhood Mycroft lived in was upscale, but the buildings on the block were relatively nondescript. All identical, white, cube-like structures with the oversized brass doors being the only ornamental aspect. Greg had fancied that it must be interesting on that block when people were drunk and going up to the wrong doors since each one looked the same. Then it occurred to Lestrade that it might be exactly what a man like Mycroft, keeper of so many government secrets, might want. Why make it so easy for a potential enemy to find you, after all?

But Greg knew he was standing in front of the right door. It was almost second nature to him now, having been an occasional visitor over the years that Sherlock had starting his “consulting” business, and as a more frequent visitor of late. He swallowed hard when it occurred to him that his days in front of this door might be numbered after he and Mycroft had their “talk.”

Greg rang the bell, feeling his heart beating up around his Adam's apple. He wasn't sure why he was so nervous. He'd broken off relationships before. Hell, _he'd_ initiated his divorce! Yes, this was different, and yes, he'd been falling for the tall, aristocratic, elusive Mycroft Holmes, but Greg knew that John was right. Things couldn't go on this way. If Mycroft was too much of a twat to call it off, then Greg was going to have to be the grownup on behalf of them both.

He was so deep in his musings that he almost missed the footsteps, and so only had a second to collect himself before the door swung open. Greg took in the sight before him and blinked. Any other time, the gobsmacked expression that graced Mycroft Holmes' face when he opened the door would have made Greg chuckle. But there wasn't any laughter in Greg at his first glimpse of Mycroft.

Lestrade looked at the man in front of him, dressed impeccably in a tuxedo, with a preternaturally straight bow-tie, a red rose at his lapel, and shoes that shone almost indecently.

Anger and humiliation welled up within Greg, threatening to choke him. A small, shocked little wheeze that left lips, and Lestrade was conscious of the desire to yell. The expression of astonishment remained on Mycroft's face a second longer and he took a step out, over the threshold.

“Gregory! What are you –”

“– Feeling less tired, are we?” Lestrade's voice was tight with suppressed rage. “You look in pretty good nick to me. Let me guess: Opera? Dinner with the Uzbek ambassador? Movie night with Her Majesty?”

Mycroft quickly shook his head. “It isn't what it looks like. I didn't think –”

“– Yeah, _obviously_.” Greg could feel a headache coming on, and he grit his teeth as if he thought that would keep it at bay. “Well, obviously I forgot, in the little time we've been seeing each other, how to speak 'Holmes.' Being 'tired' means being tired of _me._ You could've just told me, you know. I'm not a bloody three-year-old.”

“Gregory, you misunderstand. This isn't –”

A sound cut into Mycroft's words  that made the taller man's eyes widen and Greg's blood run cold. It was a voice

“Mycroft? Who is it at the door?”

Greg's face burned. It wa a smoothly accented voice. Slightly imperious, slightly bored.

And _very_ female.

Greg knew it wasn't Mycroft's assistant, Anthea. Her voice was softer-sounding, and somehow he couldn't see the woman calling her boss "Mycroft," not even off-duty. So that could only mean …

He stepped back and took another long look at Mycroft's attire.

“Right. I've been a fucking idiot.” Greg's jaw was tight and his voice shook. “I'd chin you, but wouldn't want to get blood all over that nice clean shirt, yeah? Even the cleaning bill would probably be more than my salary, I'd bet.

Greg turned to walk away, his vision clouding. White noise filled his ears and his mind was a total blank. He was a bloody _detective_ for fuck's sake! When the _hell_ would he stop getting bloody blindsided in this way?

He was jolted out his thoughts by the firm weight of Mycroft's hand grasping his upper arm.

“ _No_. Gregory, don't leave. It isn't what you think.”

“Let go of me.” Greg's voice was low and dangerous, and he ignored the soft pleading quality of Mycroft's voice. “Don't think I don't know what could happen to me if I hit you, but believe me when I say I _don't_ give a fuck. I –”

The voice floated out to them again, sharper this time.

“Mycroft? What _are_ you doing? The draft is getting rather bothersome.”

“You'd better get back in to your _date_ ,” hissed Greg, trying to pull out Mycroft's grip. “She doesn't sound like the type who likes to be kept waiting.”

“That is an understatement,” muttered Mycroft. “But that's neither here nor there at the moment.”

To Greg's great surprise, Mycroft didn't let him go. In fact, he all but hauled Greg inside and shut the door firmly.

Greg was speechless for a moment, not sure what was going on.

“What are you doing? Open the bloody door! I don't want to be here _or_ see you. It's over. Wait, did you need me to actually say the words?” Lestrade's eyes were flashing. “Well fine then. We're through –”

Mycroft shook his head again. “I miscalculated. I thought … well, never mind that now. You're here. You've come all this way, and I don't think it would be prudent for you to leave at this particular moment.”

Lestrade laughed. It was a tight, ugly sound. He couldn't help it. He couldn't say that Mycroft didn't have balls. He supposed dealing with sheiks and prime ministers had strengthened the taller man's resolve over the years. Taking no for an answer wasn't something he fancied. Greg would have almost admired that if he didn't know how dangerously close he was coming to throttling the man.

“Oh, sorry, I didn't think _you_ had any say in whether I came or left of my own free will." Greg fancied he could actually feel his blood boiling. " _Open the fucking door, Mycroft_.”

“Indulge me.” A vein at Mycroft's jaw was twitching. “If, after you see what I wish you to see, you still wish to leave, I won't stand in your way.”

Greg gazed at him for a moment. He couldn't think that Mycroft was _actually_ suggesting that he … what … introduce him to the bint he was playing around with behind Greg's back? Not even his ex had gone that far. Greg had some ideas on who “Mr. PE Teacher” might've been, but he'd never had them confirmed.

Mycroft seemed serious, however. Greg narrowed his eyes. He recalled John's observation that Mycroft tended to leave off the flowery obfuscations and double-meanings when he was confronted directly. Greg squared himself with the man and looked him in the eye. In that instant, Mycroft let him go.

“I'm not here to mess about. Tell me, right now, what exactly it is you want me to see.”

“What I've been concealing from you the entire week,” said Mycroft, looking at Greg steadily. “Five minutes of your time, Gregory. Please.”

Lestrade set his jaw, not wanting to show outwardly how Mycroft's slight plea was affecting him. “Five minutes,” he said shortly. He had a feeling he'd highly regret this later, but there was also the chance that seeing Mycroft's new plaything would strengthen his resolve and he'd be much less likely to backslide into giving Mycroft a second chance … if he would even want one.

Mycroft nodded and they walked together through the foyer and into Mycroft's living room. The interior of Mycroft's home was much more what someone who knew Mycroft would have expected: Framed paintings, plush throw rugs over dark wood floors, furniture from all parts of the globe, including a long, low sofa that seemed to dare people to sit in it.

Except people _were_ sitting in it. Two people, in fact. A woman and a man.

Greg's eyes snapped immediately to the woman, wanting to gauge his rival, and he was brought up short.

She was, well, _old_.

_Elderly_ , he corrected himself internally, remembering good Mrs. Hudson's admonitions on the proper way to refer to persons of a “certain age.”

Yes, the woman was … _elderly_ , and dressed the way Greg had seen a duchess described in a book once: dark blue gown and a white furry object at her neck that Greg suspected had probably put up as much of a fight as it had been able to.

Her white hair was short and in a style that might have been a bit young for her, but she had the posture and a slightly haughty air that enabled her to pull it off. She had brilliant blue eyes set in a narrow face that looked well-preserved by good living and good genes, not good surgeons, though Lestrade fancied the woman could have afforded some of the best. Greg could tell that in her day, the woman had been a knockout.

She looked vaguely familiar, but Lestrade couldn't quite put his finger on where he'd seen her before.

The man at her side was significantly younger, and Greg knew this bloke wouldn't even cause Mycroft to break his stride. Mid-20s to early-30s, dressed much like Mycroft, except his tux didn't fit him anywhere near as well. Square-rimmed glasses and a fringe of hair that flopped into his eyes the way it did with every bloke in that age group who seemed to wear their hair that way.

The woman lifted an eyebrow and cocked her head at Mycroft. “Has there been some sort of disturbance? I thought you said you'd cleared your work schedule for the week.”

Her accent was the sort of clubby aristocratic tone that only a few could get right and not sound like a caricature. It was obvious that she knew Mycroft well to be so high-handed with him. Greg could only remember one other person speaking to Mycroft that way.

The woman glanced at a slender golden watch on her thin wrist and looked up again.

“Do take care of whatever this is quickly, Mycroft. You know the Metropole has no compunction about seating people willy-nilly, and I will _not_ sit in that ridiculously decorated lounge waiting for a suitable table.”

Greg's focus snapped back to the old woman, not because she'd spoken, but because the slight niggle at the back of his brain had now blossomed into full realization. He'd been wrong. He'd never seen this woman before in his life. Her _eyes_. It was her _eyes_ he'd seen before.

In Sherlock's face.

Wordlessly, Greg turned toward Mycroft, who seemed to be able to accurately read his expression. He nodded slightly, and without taking his eyes off Greg, said in a gentle voice.

“There has been no disturbance, Mummy. Just a misunderstanding.” Mycroft cleared his throat. “Gregory, might I introduce you to my mother: Edwina Holmes. Mummy, this is Gregory.”

She gave Greg a small smile. Next to her, the young bloke stirred and looked annoyed.

Mycroft glanced briefly in his direction. “And this is her … private secretary. _Chuck_.”

Greg turned back toward Mrs. Holmes in time to see her roll her eyes at her son.

“Don't be rude, Mycroft. It is _Charles_.”

“I was under the impression that he preferred to be called _Chuck_.” Mycroft's voice was dryly polite. “Maybe I misunderstood?”

The young man – Charles, Chuck, whatever – glared at Mycroft through his thick fringe, reminding Greg more of a snotty schoolboy who'd just been read off by the headmaster.

Mrs. Holmes patted the young man's knee and looked at Mycroft reproachfully.

“That _was_ a joke, Mycroft, though I should have known that it would fly over your head. Your lack of a sense of humor rivals your father's, as amazing as that is.”

Mycroft colored slightly. "Considering the sort of _jokes_ Father made at everyone's expense, I'll have to take exception to that."

"As you wish." She looked at Greg, raking him from top to toe with a coldly assessing gaze. “You're not an MP, are you?” It was clear in her voice that she highly doubted that to be the case.

“Er, no, ma'am.” Greg's face was heating up as all became clear. Bloody hell. It was his _mother_! _That_ was why Mycroft had been acting so strangely all week. A visit by anyone's mother would get them out of sorts. Greg knew that it would be the case with him.

Noting that Mrs. Holmes was waiting for an answer, Greg rubbed the back of his neck as he said: “I'm, er … I work at New Scotland Yard.”

"Oh yes?" she said in a calmly politely voice that indicated that she wasn't very impressed. "How nice."

Greg noticed that Mrs. Holmes's hand was still on the younger bloke's knee. Judging by that, the glances passing between the young man and the old lady, and Mycroft's faintly pained sneer, Greg had the feeling that Charles/Chuck was licking more than just Mrs. Holmes's stamps.

He shuddered slightly at the thought and looked at Mycroft, wondering if he could tell how much of a berk he felt.

“I … er … didn't mean ito intrude.” Greg swallowed hard. “I wouldn't have, er, interrupted your evening if I had known Mycroft had, er, company. I'll just -”

“- No. It was my fault,” said Mycroft with a soft sigh. “Mummy usually spends this time of year at her home in the Maldives. She decided to pay me a rather unexpected visit. It threw things a bit off kilter.”

“You make it sound as if I'm the bad fairy ruining the christening of Sleeping Beauty.” Mrs. Holmes shook her elegant head at her son. “Is it _so_ horrible that I wished to surprise my son? It _has_ been two years since I was last in London, and you ring so seldomly.”

Greg's eyes widened and his face reddened even more. “Bloody – er, I mean, I really am sorry for interrupting, then. 'Specially since it's been so long since you've seen each other.”

“Well, the circumstances under which we last were in each other's company were extremely unpleasant,” said Mrs. Holmes with a slight shiver. “So I would think it's just as well.”

Lestrade's forehead creased, and then it hit him what the woman meant. Two years ago was when Sherlock had died.

 He recalled that there had been a woman at Sherlock's memorial service, heavily veiled in black lace. Greg remembered Mycroft saying a few words to her but the woman hadn't made any acknowledgment. Greg hadn't seen her at the burial, but then he'd been comforting a heartbroken Mrs. Hudson and had been in stunned disbelief himself, hardly able to comprehend that Sherlock Holmes was truly gone.

“I'm sorry,” said Greg softly, surfacing from his memories. “I guess that's so.”

She gave him an odd look. “You work at New Scotland Yard. You knew my youngest … you knew Sherlock, then?”

Greg glanced uneasily at Mycroft, who seemed to have gone unnervingly still beside him.

“Yes, ma'am. I'm a Detective Inspector there. Sherlock helped me on a number of cases. He had a brilliant mind. And was a good man.”

Lestrade bit his lip, recalling all those years ago, when he'd first met John and opined that Sherlock Holmes was a great man and might, someday, turn out to be a good one, as well. That day had come sooner than Lestrade had imagined, and under circumstances he could never have imagined.

“Ah. Yes. His consulting business.” Mrs. Holmes sounded slightly pained. “His father wanted him to be a physician. I wished him to continue with his music. You heard him play his violin, perhaps?”

Greg nodded. “A fair few times. He was very good. He could've made it as a professional musician.”

Mrs. Holmes looked pleased and she shot Mycroft a look of triumph. “What have I told you? Your brother could have ranked among the great violinists of an age, and yet _you_ encouraged him in that ridiculous conceit of his. Who on earth ever heard of a 'consulting detective'?”

Mycroft sighed softly again. His expression seemed to indicate that they'd had this conversation before – several times.

“It made Sherlock happy, Mummy.”

“So did the drugs,” she shot back. “And _that_ didn't get him very far either, did it?”

Mycroft briefly closed his eyes. “Mother, _please_.”

“Though, at least the drugs didn't kill him in the end,” she said in an acidly sweet voice. “So perhaps it might have been better after all to have left him to those.”

Greg saw Charles/Chuck beginning to squirm beside his mistress and Lestrade suddenly felt as if the air had gotten thick and heavy around all of them, making it difficult for him to breathe. Greg wanted to reach out and put his arm around Mycroft, who'd gone alarmingly white, but the tall man mastered himself, squared his shoulders and blinked. He glanced at Lestrade before addressing his mother.

“I'm sure Gregory didn't come to hear us bicker about ancient history, Mummy.”

The old woman began to say something, but she also straightened and gave the sort of wispy smile Greg imagined the queen gave whenever she and one of her children got into a row. Not Charles. She didn't seem like she ever rowed with Charles. Andrew, maybe.

“Quite.” She aimed her misty smile at Greg. “My apologies, Inspector. I _do_ tend to rattle on when I'm _famished_.” Mrs. Holmes gave Mycroft a cutting look, which he ignored.

“I apologize, as well,” said Mycroft in a low voice, holding Greg's gaze.

“No, it's … it's fine.” Greg glanced toward the door. “ _I_ apologize again for just showing up. I –”

“Yes. Why _are_ you here, Inspector?” Mrs. Holmes squinted at him.

“I'm sorry?”

“My son said that there is no business to be had. He is not in the habit of lying to me, and I'd be able to see through him if he tried,” she said. “Also, he didn't introduce you by your rank, but rather by your name. And your first name, at that. What _is_ your surname, by the way?”

“My … oh. It's er, Lestrade.”

“Lestrade.” The woman said crisply, giving him another incisive stare. “Well then. Even if Mycroft had dissembled or simply said nothing, it would have been obvious that you didn't come here on business.”

Greg shifted his weight from one foot to the other. How the _fuck_ to answer that? Say that he was sure her son was close to calling it all off with him and he was there to gauge just how far he'd fucked things up enough for Mycroft to want to end things?

Mycroft cut in: “As I said, Mummy, it was _my_ fault. I did not give Gregory adequate information, and he –”

The old woman's eyes widened suddenly, and she said “Oh!” in that half-startled, half-thrilled way that Sherlock used to do when he'd discovered some elusive clue. 

“Dear me, I _am_ getting on! How could I have been so blind?” She beamed at Greg. “You're my son's lover, is that not so?”

Greg flushed up to his hairline. Well. _That_ was certainly direct.

“Er, well … we … that is to say, we haven't exactly ...” His blush became more pronounced. “I mean ...”

But Mrs. Holmes wasn't paying much attention to his stammering. She was looking at her son with an expression blending respect with a small amount of what seemed to be envy.

“Your taste has _certainly_ improved, Mycroft.” she sniffed. “I admit I was very concerned when you brought home that gentleman from the Home Office that one Boxing Day. Nice enough background but he did look like a ferret dressed up in a morning coat. And a very badly tailored one, at that.”

“He had just lost a great deal of weight,” said Mycroft through gritted teeth, throwing Greg an apologetic look. “Mummy, we had best be going. Our reservations ...”

“Why didn't you invite your young man to dine with us?” Mrs. Holmes's eyebrows rose. “I raised you much better than that.”

Greg and Mycroft exchanged a quick look. It was, Greg had to admit, a good question, though he wasn't sure if he could survive a dinner with _two_ Holmeses. It had never been done before, not even in Sherlock's lifetime.

She simpered at Greg. “And am I to understand my son didn't tell you I was in London? I've been here nearly a week? What on earth were you waiting for, Mycroft?”

“My relationship with Gregory was one of the many topics I'd hoped to discuss with you tonight, over dinner. I had _thought_ , since reservations at the Metropole come so dear, that we would be alone.” He gave Charles/Chuck a pointed look.

“As for your first question, I … did not ask Gregory because I …" Mycroft swallowed. "I wished to speak to you about him first, and acquaint you about our … relationship.”

Greg kept watch on Mycroft out of the corner of his eye. _That_ was interesting. He wasn't sure what to make of that. If it weren't so apparent that Mrs. Holmes knew her son's sexual preference, Greg would have thought that Mycroft was going to break the news of his homosexuality to his mother. Since that couldn't be it, Greg wasn't quite sure what Mycroft would have wanted to say to his mother about the two of them.

“Ah.” She nodded gently. “Well. I can assure you, Mycroft, you have nothing to fear. Your young man _is_ delectable, but I'll be a good girl.”

Now it was Mycroft's turn to blush. “Yes, well ...”

“Oh, now I do know that I may have been a bit indiscreet in the past with some of your male … friends. But I've learned my lesson.” Edwina Holmes smiled beatifically at Greg. “Though you _are_ a handsome one, aren't you?”

“ _Mummy_ ...”

Mycroft looked less than pleased and Charles/Chuck didn't look especially happy either, Greg noticed.

“... Do calm down, Mycroft. I have no desire to … hmmm … 'cuckold' isn't quite the word I'm searching for ...”

“I would say _not_ , Mother.” Mycroft's voice was strained.

“Would you prefer 'cock-block' then?”

Charles/Chuck went the color of a boiled beet and Mycroft suddenly sounded as if he were choking.

Greg bit his lip and studied a line on the floor, wondering if he concentrated hard enough if he'd be able to spontaneously combust and escape this bizarre scene.

“ _No_. And I don't think anyone _else_ here would, either.” Mycroft took Greg's elbow. “The car will be here momentarily, Mummy. I'll see Gregory out and then we'll go.”

“Very well.” Mrs. Holmes sounded disappointed. “It was nice meeting you, Inspector Lestrade. I do hope my son isn't quite a fool as to push you away. If he is, I do believe I –”

“– Nice meeting you, too, Mrs. Holmes,” said Greg was practically dragged from the room by Mycroft, but not before noticing the woman give him another searching glance and lingering somewhat below the waist this time. “Have a good evening.”

Greg's head was still reeling as Mycroft marched him to the door. That was … yes. He and John had always speculated on what sort of upbringing Mycroft and Sherlock might have had and what their parents had been like. Greg didn't think he or John had quite hit the mark, especially where it concerned their mother.

Opening the door, Mycroft heaved a great sigh. “I apologize for that, Gregory.”

“It's, um, okay.” Greg shrugged loosely. “It was … flattering? In a way? I suppose?”

Mycroft shook his head. “I was not referring to my mother's … imposture. Though I have to say – and please do not take this the wrong way – you are quite a bit older than my mother's usual target … demographic, as it were.”

“Thanks.” Greg's voice was wry. “So … uh … _Chuck_ is ...”

“I try not to think about it.” Mycroft shuddered a little. “My father was a brilliant man in many ways, but he made my mother's life hell with his extramarital dalliances. I don't begrudge her a bit of fun and romance in her twilight years, but I find it amusing that she rails at me for _my_ choice of men.”

Greg chuckled a little. “Well, everyone has to have a hobby. And as long as she's happy, I guess that's all that counts?”

“There is that.” Mycroft was looking at him. “My apology, by the way, was for _my_ behavior. I was caught off guard by my mother's sudden insistence on seeing me. Since Sherlock's … death, she has shunned London and its environs as if it were communicable disease. I was certain she was going to impart some horrible news, and I was distracted. That is no excuse, however, for not having told you about her arrival.”

Greg considered that for a moment. “Has she said anything? I mean, any bad news?”

“No.” Mycroft shook his head. “She simply wished to see me.”

“You sound as if that's something that doesn't happen often.”

“It wasn't. It isn't,” said Mycroft. “Especially as she blames me for Sherlock's death.”

Greg's breath caught. “What? _You_? Why? How? You didn't do anything …”

“That is precisely her point.” Mycroft gave a brittle grin. “I didn't do _anything_. Nothing to prevent it, nothing to stop it.” He paused for a moment. “I promised her I would look after him. In her eyes, I failed.”

Lestrade heard the sadness behind Mycroft's matter-of-fact voice and he put a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Mycroft, that's not true. You did all you could, and more. I was there, remember? Almost from the beginning. I know what you went through to get Sherlock clean and keep him safe. Back then, I came to know the sort of man you really were.”

"And what might that have been?" Mycroft's smile grew ever so slightly. “The sort of man who had somehow effortlessly incurred the enmity of his only brother and quite possibly drove him to an early grave?”

“ _No_. The sort of man I could respect. And want to get to know.” Greg looked at him. “The sort of man I could see myself being mates with.”

Mycroft licked his lips absently. “Mates and perhaps … more?”

Greg grinned. “No 'perhaps' about it, but _that_ realization came a little later.”

Lestrade decided that it was probably unnecessary to mention that he hadn't exactly been single _when_ the realization had come. It wasn't important. Nothing had happened until the divorce anyway.

“But one thing.” Greg's voice turned serious. “Let's not go through this again, yeah? Been there, done that, and have the decree to show for it. I can't do that again … secrecy, being fobbed off, knowing something's off and not even getting a hint. You have to keep some things close to the vest; I understand that. But other things, especially things having to do with you and me, I need to know, Mycroft. Things between us can't work otherwise.”

Mycroft nodded. “You're right. It won't happen again. I knew as soon as I saw your face that I'd erred. I just ...”

The taller man paused and looked away. Greg, frowning, leaned closer.

“You just … _what_? What is it?”

Mycroft sighed and turned back to Greg.

“Well, for a start, while it is possible that my mother was genuinely taken off guard by your appearance, it's a bit concerning that she made no reaction whatever to your name.”

Greg frowned. “Er, should she have? We'd never met before tonight, you know.”

“Yes, but your name has flown about in tandem with Sherlock's for years, at least in the press. She may have denigrated my brother's chosen profession, but I know she read about his exploits, up to the very end,” said Mycroft. “I was not certain how she would react knowing that I was romantically involved with a man whom the papers had vilified for falsely accusing Sherlock of numerous crimes.”

Now it was Greg's turn to go pale.

“... _Shit_. I didn't think about that.” He gulped slightly. "Is that why you didn't tell her my full name _or_ where I worked at first?"

"Somewhat," said Mycroft. "I also didn't want to reduce you to simply a rank. As she said, you did not come on business and I didn't want to treat it as such. You were _Gregory_ , not Detective Inspector Lestrade. But I do admit that I had feared that she might make something of a scene."

Greg let out a breath. "I guess she wouldn't be too happy that you're mucking about with a bloke she might blame for her son's death, yeah?”

“I'm not 'mucking about,'” said Mycroft in a stern voice, before his expression softened. “And it doesn't matter, as I had planned to tell her that of all of those in Scotland Yard, you were Sherlock's partisan and your hand was forced in the matter.”

“I don't know that it would make much difference,” muttered Greg. “I don't think it would if I were in her place.”

“Perhaps it wouldn't, but I was going to try,” said Mycroft with a slight shrug. “My mother is, as you can see, a bit unconventional, and I'm certain that she realized who you were after the initial introduction. But I wished to be able to tell her about us without an audience, which is why _Chuck's_ appearance irritated me. I assumed he'd be at the hotel, playing with his ...”

“Mycroft ...” Greg gave him a look.

“... Mobile.” Mycroft smiled tightly. “At any rate, best-laid plans, and so forth. Also, there is another reason that I thought it best that you and my mother not meet. At least, not right now.”

“What?” Greg tilted his head a bit. “What was the other reason? Wait, don't tell me you thought she'd keep up the flirting with me?”

“At least through the tuna carpaccio course,” Mycroft said with a smirk. “But no. That wasn't the other reason.”

“Then what was it?”

“I didn't want you to see in how little regard she holds me.” Out came the brittle smile once more. “My own mother. Sherlock was her favorite, after all. As it turns out, you received a taste of that anyway, despite my best efforts.”

Lestrade shook his head slowly and gently touched the tall man's cheek.

“Mycroft, that's _her_ problem, not yours. And it definitely is not _ours_. I can't imagine what it's like for her, losing a son, especially the way she did, but if she pisses away the chance to have a real relationship with you, that isn't your fault. Since I'm reckoning you and Sherlock got at least some of your, er, _abilities_ from her, I'm hoping she proves me right about how clever she is.”

“Thank you, Gregory.” Mycroft smiled a bit, and Greg fancied he was blushing a little. “You are welcome to come along. I can push the reservations back an hour.”

Greg snorted. “Sorry, I don't have a tux. And –” he held up a hand when Mycroft began to speak. “– I'm sure your tailor can work miracles on short notice, but I don't want you to go to the trouble for all that.”

Mycroft shrugged a bit and sighed. “It's probably just as well. I do believe my mother would have tried to find a way to work your arse into the conversation at every opportunity.”

“Umm ...” Greg's brow knit. “... Yeah. I'm gonna just leave that one alone.”

Mycroft almost smiled. “Very prudent.”

He swallowed hard. “When can I see you again? Would next Friday work?”

“I would enjoy that.” Mycroft nodded. “And … as I was unable to keep our usual date this week, perhaps we could make that up next week? Perhaps … make a weekend out of it?”

“Sure, sounds –” Greg was nodding when it occurred to him what Mycroft was implying. His eyes went wide.

“... _Oh_. I mean, yeah. Yes. I'd like that. A lot.” He had to keep from drooling at the prospect.

Mycroft grinned. “I'd hoped you would. I'm looking forward to it, as well. It ...”

He broke off and cocked his head slightly as if trying to hear something within his flat. After a moment he grimaced and shook his head.

“What is it?” Greg craned his neck and tried to see inside. “Does your mum need something?”

“Yes. A filter.” Mycroft shook his head. “She's mentioning to … _Chuck_ that he would look divine with a bit of grey in his hair. He is disagreeing. Vehemently.”

Lestrade laughed. “Well, not _every_ bloke can pull it off. I was half-grey by his age, so the only thing I could do was own it. He's a good-looking enough bloke as he is, though, even with the arsey hair.”

“Hmmm. Be that as it may, I believe that his days as my mother's _assistant_ are numbered,” said Mycroft. “She seems to go through her secretaries the way Sir Churchill went through cigars.”

“Um.” Greg wanted to say he could imagine, but the truth was, he really couldn't, and moreover, he _really_ didn't want to. “So. Next week then?”

“Yes.” Mycroft nodded. “Though I do hope we will be able to get back to our normal chatting before then.”

“Me, too.” Greg's smile turned slightly contemplative. “Since we had to skip this week, does this mean next week it's still _my_ turn? To arrange things, I mean.”

Mycroft lifted an eyebrow. “... Yes. I suppose it _does_ mean that.”

“For the whole weekend then?”

“Yes." Mycroft nodded. "I think that's only fair, considering.”

Greg's smile sharpened as he stared into Mycroft's eyes. “ _Good_.”

The tall man looked at him askance. “Should I be … concerned?”

“Nope.” Greg shook his head. “But I would suggest that you eat up tonight and all this week. You're gonna need your strength. Night, then.”

Greg turned away humming happily beneath his breath, able to hear Mycroft's answering chuckle long after the other man had shut the door.


End file.
